Silent Prayer
by DarkUnderworld
Summary: The night was silent and so very still, and Raphael thought that it was a good night to die.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey all, so since I haven't done anything truly angsty for a while, please enjoy. This fic is only going to be a two-shot:)**

 **Thank you to my wonderful Beta, Amonraphoenix for beta reading this fic for me! Thank you soo much! XD**

 **A/N Don't own TMNT... :(**

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Chapter 1

 ** _Now I lay me down to sleep..._**

 **Raphael** lay upon the cold, damp ground, staring up at the quite stillness of the darkened night sky. He hadn't really noticed how many stars filled the sky above him each night as he and his brothers slipped from shadow to shadow, protecting the city that was their home.

He had never given the stars any more thought than he had given the moon, the sun or the lazy clouds that would drift across the expansive skyline filled with gleaming skyscrapers that pushed ever upwards.

But the truth was, he had never really noticed how truly magnificent the night sky was, blanketed as it was with so many stars that it would take a lifetime or more to count their number; though he was sure that there were those who attempted this futile exercise anyway.

A soft exhalation of air left his lungs as he continued to stare upwards. The agonized pain that had stolen away his breath and driven all thoughts from his mind had long ago subsided, leaving only a vague sort of numbness that was somehow comforting.

A shallow intake of breath inflated his lungs barely enough to move his chest, or perhaps, his chest did not move at all, he couldn't tell and there was a small part of him that didn't care anymore if it did or did not.

He felt disconnected from everything. He knew that he lay upon the uncomfortable forest floor, wet leaves, twigs and other bits of vegetation clinging to his battered torn and burned skin. He knew that each and every breath that he took was shorter and harder to take than the last, and that each beat of his strained heart only allowed more of his precious lifeblood to be pumped from his body and onto the damp springy loam beneath him.

Grievous wounds criss-crossed his body, several bones had been broken and his chest felt as if it had been torn open and a red hot poker jammed through the opening for good measure. If he moved his head to look down at his body, he would possibly be able to understand why his chest hurt so damn much, but the effort to do so seemed too burdensome.

Instead, he stared up at the beauty of the night sky, and hoped that his brothers had fared better than he had. As long as they had saved Michelangelo and his other brothers lived, that's all that he cared about; he could give his own life without any regrets.

And he wasn't good with goodbyes, so it was better this way, dying alone...

The canopy of the forest swayed gently above him, the sound of wood creaking and the rustle of leaves soothing his weary mind. Darkness seeped along the edges of his vision to blend in with the indigo spread out above him in a glorious array of twinkling lights that called to him invitingly.

Raphael felt his eyes slip closed as a short shallow breath was released, no intake of breath followed. His chest remained motionless; quiet, gentle stillness settling across his broken body giving rest to his battle worn and weary soul.

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 ** _I pray the Lord my soul to keep..._**

 **Donatello's** breath came out in harsh ragged gasps, the cool night air he was dragging into his lungs burning his throat which was already raw and hoarse from his frantic calls which echoed desperately through the darkened forested night.

His toes struck a tangled root causing him to stumble; pitching his body forward needles, twigs and sticks digging into the palms of his hands as he hit the ground.

Scrambling quickly to his feet, he pushed himself forward, having lost his bearings long ago he scanned the treetops searching for a plume of dark black smoke billowing into the sky.

Catching only the faint wisp of charcoal against nearly black indigo, he darted forward in the direction of where he hoped his red masked brother would be.

Legs nearly giving way beneath him, Donatello struggled to push himself forward, his own bruises and lacerations forgotten as he tried frantically to find Raphael, who he could only pray was still alive.

It had all happened so fast… It had all gone so wrong so very quickly.

They had been trying to pry Michelangelo from the hated and feared clutches of Agent Bishop, who had, three days ago, captured Michelangelo while their baby brother had been on his way home after picking up takeout for dinner.

Donatello blamed himself for not having noticed their baby brother's absence sooner, but he had been too busy trying to get the security system he was working on upgraded. Leonardo had been busy with training, and Raphael had been absorbed in cheering for his favourite wrestler on TV that none of them had noticed that Michelangelo had not come home.

It wasn't until he had extricated himself from the lab, his stomach growling angrily at him to get some food into it and his brain screaming at him that he needed another jolt of caffeine if he was going to pull off this all-nighter, that he found no leftover pizza in the fridge.

Raphael's match had just wrapped up and he chose that moment to walk into the kitchen complaining about how Michelangelo hadn't told him that dinner was ready.

Donatello had observed that there was no pizza in the fridge and both had sought out their baby brother, wondering if he had decided to hog all of the pizza to himself. But they hadn't been able to find their mischievous baby brother anywhere.

Alerting Leonardo to the situation, they confirmed that Michelangelo had been gone for over two hours. A quick call to April and Casey had informed them that Michelangelo had not stopped in for a visit with their human friends and it was at that moment that a slow, dread filled panic had settled into their heart and minds as Donatello ran back to his lab, determined to locate the whereabouts of their missing baby brother.

It had taken his three days to do it. Three tiring, frightening, gruelling days of hacking government systems and satellites after finding Michelangelo's abandoned cell phone smashed upon the ground in a darkened alleyway. Forceful inquires were made to the Foot Clan and the Purple Dragons which turned up nothing but sly smiles, insinuations, and culminated into the giving and receiving of bruised and battered flesh.

After sifting through hours upon hours of satellite images, he was able to make out the grainy, grey image of Michelangelo being forced into a black van.

From there, it was a frantic search through more satellite images until he was finally able to track Michelangelo's whereabouts to a facility located a two hours outside of town in a densely forested area.

Parking far enough away so as to not alert any guards, they had slid silently through the darkened woods like shadows, coming upon the large, one story concrete structure. Slipping in had been a simple enough task, and Donatello had believed that he had been so clever, that he had disabled all security alarms and cameras, but he had been overconfident and so very wrong.

Upon their entrance, lights flashed, sirens screamed, and wave after wave of armed and highly trained commandos appeared, thwarting their efforts to free their missing brother from his captors.

They were completely outnumber and outmaneuvered, which delighted Bishop to no end. But Donatello had a few tricks of his own up his sleeves. Bishop may have had a backup security system in place, but this didn't mean that Donatello wasn't able to hack the computer network's functions, turning off the power and plunging them all into a brief darkness that lasted long enough for them to slip past the bulk of Bishop's forces and take the stairs down to the lower levels. Here they found the detention cells and what looked to be a scientific laboratory/operating room -if the lab equipment coupled with the single metal, blood spattered gurney with biting straps were any indication of the purpose of the room's function.

Feeling a sick sensation rolling through his gut at the sight of the blood -which he silently prayed wasn't Michelangelo's- he and his brother's desperately searched the cells and found them all to be empty.

Fear had shot through him at their lack of success and the absolute certainty that the blood they had found in the lab was his brother's. However, he was almost relieved to not have found Michelangelo. The lack of their reluctant host's presence as well as his baby brother's allowed him to reassure his brothers that Michelangelo was still alive. How injured he was or how close to death he was Donatello could not say, but he did know that if their baby brother was dead, they would have found him either on the metal slab or in one of the cells abandoned by the man who had kidnapped him and discarded like so much refuse after he had served whatever purpose Bishop had needed him for.

Fuelled by this knowledge they had made their way back to the main level of the facility and heard what sounded like the whirring blades of a waiting helicopter.

Spurred on by the knowledge that they were about to lose Michelangelo, possibly forever this time, they exited the building in time to see the helicopter just beginning to lift off. Running towards it, the smothered sound of shots being fired at them from the remainder of Bishop's forces, they knew that they weren't going to be able to catch the ascending helicopter.

Not saving Michelangelo had never been an option. Pulling a grappling hook from the duffle bag that he had slung over his shoulder which was full of supplies -like a first aid kit and a few other pieces of technical and medical equipment- he spun it over his head before launching it into the night, praying to whoever would listen that the hook would find purchase upon the landing skids.

Thankfully, his aim had been true and he and his brother's had latched onto the rope as if it were a lifeline to their orange masked brother's safety, and in truth, it was.

Scaling the dangling rope amid gunfire coming from inside the helicopter, they managed to pull themselves up and into the interior of the helicopter through the side doors, struggling to get the weapons away from the two commando operatives who were guarding a bruised, battered and semi-concious Michelangelo who was bound and gagged on the floor of the cab.

Leonardo took care of Bishop's men with quick efficiency, Raphael diving into the cockpit to confront Bishop who was piloting the helicopter.

The helicopter banked to the left as Raphael struggled for control of the helicopter while wrestling Bishop's weapon away from him.

Donatello was only partly paying attention to his surroundings, his entire focus upon Michelangelo's eyes, once brilliant and full of life, now pained, tired and listless.

Pitching forward in response to the helicopter's sudden change in direction, he was able to grab his baby brother before he slid out the other side of the helicopter.

Pulling Michelangelo into his arms, he quickly assured his baby brother that he was going to be okay. From what Donatello was able to observe, Michelangelo had been beaten, deep bruising and lacerations marring his usual forest green skin, and one arm appeared to be broken, but otherwise appeared in good shape considering he had been at the hands of Agent Bishop for three days.

It was at this point that it had all gone so very wrong.

Alarms were blaring and lights were flickering as Raphael managed to kick Bishop from the pilot's seat.

Sparks flashed from the broken consol as Raphael attempted to gain control their rapid decent. Bishop, slumped over in the co-pilot's seat, suddenly opened the door and jumped from the cockpit just as they were thrown into a spin. None of the occupants within the cab were able to keep their footing and were suddenly flung out of the helicopter and into the dark void of the night.

There was no moment of weightlessness; of being briefly suspended within the air before gravity caught up to the objects that were subject to its law. Instead, the force of being ejected from the helicopter pushed the air from his lungs and shot the occupants catapult-like towards the ground, while the helicopter was thrown into a tailspin, careening away and vanishing into the night.

Donatello clutched Michelangelo tightly, able to latch onto his baby brother just as they were flung from the disabled helicopter. His arms, like two bands of steel, were wrapped around Michelangelo's waist, braced for impact. He didn't even have a chance to scream, to tell his brother to hang on, not to lose hope and to survive and maybe this was a blessing, as he was not expecting to survive the next few moments. All of them would hit the ground, their bodies crushed by the force of the impact killing them instantly.

Closing his eyes tightly he felt as his carapace struck and continued on through the tops of the darkened trees that sprouted from the rich soil below.

Leaves and branches cut through his skin and slashed viciously at his face before he felt what little air he had been able to suck into his lungs, forced out at the impact of his carapace slamming into rough, unforgiving earth.

Opening his eyes, he realized that he had been knocked unconscious. He wasn't sure how long he had been out: a minute, five ten? he wasn't sure, but he knew that when he tried to take a breath, he was unable to. The wind had been knocked from his lungs and they burned; screaming at him to do a better job of feeding their oxygen deprivation than what he was doing now.

Digging his fingers into the damp earth, he rolled himself onto his stomach. Able to accomplish this small task, he slowly brought one knee up. Sliding one arm up, he finally sucked in a much needed breath of air.

Unsteadily, he managed to pull his throbbing body onto his hands and knees, his gaze swinging around to get his bearings.

Eyes falling upon the motionless form of his baby brother, he forced his protesting muscles forward and scrambled to his injured brother's side.

Fear tasted thick and bitter upon his tongue as his shaking, dirt stained fingers pressed into his brother's throat, desperately searching for a pulse. Letting out a sigh of relief when he found one, he quickly assessed his brother's injuries.

He was thankful that it appeared that Michelangelo had only added a few more scrapes and bruises to the collection he already sported.

Michelangelo's eyes slowly fluttered open and Donatello was relieved that he was lucid. After quickly ascertaining that his baby brother was in better shape than expected, he fashioned a sling for Michelangelo's broken arm from the square scrap of linen from his first aid kit, which had also survived the fall.

At that moment, Leonardo had stumbled from the trees and nearly into them. Leonardo assured both he and Michelangelo that he was okay, a tree having broken his fall. Donatello informed Leonardo that both he and Michelangelo were fine, and it was then that they realized that one of their number was missing.

Immediately his eyes searched the surrounding woods, but it was the dark clouds of billowing smoke that finally caught his attention and his heart sank into the very pit of his stomach.

Memory washed over him and he realized that it was entirely possible that Raphael hadn't made it out of the cockpit of the helicopter before it crashed into the unyielding ground; the trees giving little to no resistance to the power, weight and force of the spinning wrecking ball of metal the helicopter had become.

Donatello hadn't even heard the crash of the helicopter and realized that he must have been knocked unconscious for that brief moment. Though, if the look of dawning horror that was filling Leonardo's face was anything to go by, they all had been.

Calling his older brother back in a sharp voice that managed to break through the blind panic that had sent Leonardo darting in the direction of the billowing smoke, his brother's dark, worried gaze looked at him over his shoulder, fists white knuckled and his muscles taunt with impatience.

Donatello had stood, ordering his older brother to get their baby brother back to the van as quickly as possible.

Leonardo had of course protested, his concern for Raphael pulling him in the direction where their missing brother was located. His blue-masked brother had argued that Michelangelo needed him more, and that he would find Raphael and bring him back to the van as quickly as he was able to.

Donatello countered this by pointing out that Michelangelo's wounds, though grievous, were not life threatening and that if Raphael had indeed been caught within the wreckage of the helicopter, would be most in need of his medical knowledge.

The air between them hung briefly, charged with the bleak thought that each refused to speak or acknowledge: that Raphael may be beyond needing any sort of medical attention.

The skin around Leonardo's eyes had pulled tight, his face pale, eyes filled with grim determination. At that moment, Donatello had realized that Leonardo was balancing on the edge of a finely honed blade, not wanting to contemplate the worst, but refusing to believe the best.

Donatello had not given his older brother any more time to think or to protest his actions. Instead, Donatello took off at a dead run, ignoring his older brother's worried shouts, letting them fade into he background because he refused to give Raphael up for dead.

The sweet scent of burning wood and gasoline caught his attention. The sound of his frantically beating heart, his quick, gasping breaths and the roar of blood through her ears was drowned out by the roar and crackle of flames as they hungrily devoured all it possibly could.

Breaking through the clearing created by the merciless, cleaving metal blades of the helicopter, his feet froze to the very ground on which he tread.

He watched as the wreckage groaned and screamed before him, the flames busily licking and consuming their way across every surface; the mangled, blackened steel no more than a motionless skeleton, its twisted visage lying upon the ground long past its final death throws.

A heartbeat or two later had him crossing the bleak expanse of rutted, scorched earth before him, his eyes locked upon what remained of the cockpit in front of him.

The helicopter lay listlessly on its side, a fallen, mangled bird that had its wings clipped and was carelessly discarded, like a broken toy.

Ignoring the thick smoke and heated flames, Donatello strode through it all, leaping up upon a twisted landing skid to allow him purchase from which to crane his neck over the edge, and glance into the ravaged interior.

His lungs burned as he sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes open mere slits against the onslaught of heat, smoke and light.

Eyes moving swiftly and scanning the interior, he found it to be thankfully empty. The vice that had, unbeknownst to him, been squeezing his heart so agonizingly in his chest that it had become nothing but a painful clump of flesh that quivered with too much fear and grief, released just enough to let him know that the vice was still there.

Pulling away and jumping from the skid, his eyes scanned the darkness, a slow kind of dread sliding across his exposed flesh and a new kind of fear slipped through his mind; the taste of terror bitter and biting upon his tongue which darted out from between dry lips.

That his brother had been flung from the cockpit was obvious, and this was both a relief as well as a mind numbing complication; because now he had no idea where his brother could be.

Raising his voice in hue and cry, it was snatched up and stolen by the wind that suddenly swept through to fan the flames of the wreckage and cause gooseflesh to ride across his arms.

He tried to raise his voice above the sound of creaking, screaming, dying metal and electronics, but was unable to.

Taking a calming breath, trying to slow his heart and ease his frantically galloping mind, he tried to concentrate. Sharp, roving eyes calculated the trajectory of the helicopter when it crashed, the forces that had acted upon it, and where, if Raphael had been flung free, he could have been thrown.

Knowing time was too precious a thing to waste, and the results of his analysis too large an area to search alone, he struck out in a direction he believed to have the best chance of success and stopped. His head turned as something at the fringes of his mind beckoned him in the opposite direction.

Skirting around the edges of the burning mass of twisted and shattered metal, he broke into a run.

Like lightning across his skin, it felt as if his flesh was crawling over his very bones as desperation filled him.

Tripping over a twisted root, his knees struck the ground hard, dirt twigs and stones bitting into his flesh, but he didn't even feel the pain; it was inconsequential.

Teeth gritted with effort, his chest heaving with exertion, he opened one eye and then another, his gaze falling upon a sight that caused his heart to skitter to a stop, his brain to go blank and his breath to catch in his throat.

A few feet away, tucked within a small clearing, his brother lay partially sprawled at the base of a great tree. Raphael looked peaceful as he laid there, his face pointed towards the night sky, looking for all the world like he had decided to give into the weariness that had consumed him and decided to find a nice spot to sleep.

This idyllic image was only marred by the battered, burnt and bruised flesh that was visible even in the weak light, and the spike of broken wood projecting out from his brother's plastron.

Air sucked from his lungs he tried to speak, tried to do anything but stand there; a frozen witness to the silent, heart rending, soul shattering tableau.

A whisper of shock, of grief, of hope, all contained within a single breath and a single word slipped from between his numb lips.

"Raph."

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 **So concludes chapter one, hope you guys enjoyed, there are tissues in the corner if you need them:)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone!**

 **So, final chapter, yay! Anyway, thank you to everyone that was kind enough to review the last chapter, I can't thank you guys enough. Also thank you to all of my lovely readers for choosing to read this fic.**

 **A giant thank you as always to my lovely Beta Amoraphoenix for beta reading this chapter for me, thank you so much! XD**

 **and now, please enjoy!**

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Chapter 2

 ** _If I shall die before I wake..._**

 **Donatello** scrambled to his feet, running with a speed fueled by pure adrenalin mixed with fear, disbelief and sorrow.

Choking back all of these emotions, he skidded to a stop in front of his brother and fell to his knees.

He refused to believe his brother was dead, no matter the evidence to the contrary. Shaking, numb fingers dug into the exposed crevice of Raphael's blood spattered throat.

He expectantly waited, but only unmoving skin met his fingers. There was no pulse; no beat, no thrum of life pumping through Raphael's veins, there was only stillness and silence.

A whisper of denial left his lips as he shook his head madly back and forth. He couldn't be too late. His brother's injuries were not grievous enough to have taken Raphael's life.

Only they were, and they had.

Clenching his teeth together, he called out his brother's name, a strangled sound upon his lips that sounded more feral roar than intelligible word.

Digging his fingers deeper into his brother's throat he dared not breathe, silencing the very beat of his own heart that pounded in his ears. And that was when he felt it, that brief flutter of life beneath his fingertips; a faint, fragile thing that trembled perilously at his touch.

His breath left his mouth in a whoosh of air. Hope at saving his brother's life rose within him and he grasped that shaky emotion and held onto it with a grip of iron.

Leaning down, he tried to catch even the faintest intake of breath into his brother's lungs, but heard noting, his brother's plastron remaining alarmingly still and unmoving.

Stomping down hard on the panic that filled him, he concentrated on his need to get his brother's lungs working again and stabilizing him.

Shifting his eyes slowly to the tree limb that had impaled Raphael's plastron, he felt his world slide and dip to the left. Tiny pinpricks of adrenalin burst to life across his skin as he fought again with the panic that managed to escape the confines he had caged it in.

The sharp, broken, bloody point of the branch protruded from the upper right side of his brother's plastron. The branch had missed Raphael's heart by inches, but the hard keratin had shattered like glass, spider-wed like cracks traversing across the plain of his brother's upper scutes.

Moving his brother just enough, he could see that the limb of the tree had pierced Raphael's side between his carapace and plastron.

His breathing whooshed in and out in harsh gasps, his whole body starting to shake as he gazed at the horrific wound. His eyes slid away, assessing his brother's many other injuries; burned flesh, shrapnel, broken and dislocated bones, but his eyes unwillingly shifted back to the more worrisome and horrific injury.

The branch his brother was impaled upon was part of a dead tree that had fallen, and even though his brother would have had to have hit the branch with a significant amount of force, it had not broken and remained attached to the rest of the tree.

Making a quick decision, his options being limited and his brother's chances of survival slipping away with each moment that passed, he grabbed the bloody, broken end of the branch, and with his other hand, reached around his brother's body as if he was embracing him. Closing his eyes and praying that what he was about to do didn't kill his brother outright, he shoved his brother as hard and as fast as he could sideways, using both of their weights to hopefully snap the dead branch from the main body of the tree without doing Raphael significant and irreparable harm.

There was resistance and then the sound of dried wood splintering and groaning against the strain before the shotgun crack of the branch snapping shattered the eerie silence of the night.

Together they fell against the soft, damp loam of the forest floor, his brother's chilled body clutched within the circle of his arms.

It took the space of a breath for Donatello to pull away and manoeuvre his brother upon his carapace.

Fingers sticky and wet with Raphael's drying blood, he again sought out the faint pulse at his brother's throat and found it; a lethargic movement straining desperately against death, but still faltering.

Removing his fingers from Raphael's throat, his hands hovered over Raphael's plastron the wooden shaft protruding from his brother's chest; a bloody tangible, symbol of mockery to any and all efforts to save his brother's life.

His fingers twitched, wanting nothing more than to tear the offending, gruesome stake from his brother's chest, but knowing that he dared not. If he removed the broken limb he could make the damage worse or kill Raphael instantly.

Forcing his eyes away from the grotesque object of his ire, he placed shaking hands upon his brother's head, tipping it back so he could perform rescue breathing. Opening his brother's mouth he breathed into Raphael's motionless lungs.

After repeated efforts to breathe air into Raphael, his brother's lungs remained unmoved by Donatello's best efforts.

He pleaded with his brother to take a breath, to stay with him, to survive because they had saved Michelangelo, and it was only through Raphael's actions that their baby brother was alive and well and it wouldn't be fair if they saved one brother only to lose another.

Shaking breaths filled with fear and laced with grief exited through his lips as his vision began to blur and he redoubled his efforts.

Tears slipped from his eyes to roll briefly down his cheeks before falling upon the soft curve of Raphael's cheek. The silver of the trembling tear reflected the starlight of the night sky for a brief moment before it was lost to the darkness as it slipped down his brother's cheek to land upon the green, mossy earth.

Leaning forward, he listened, the world around him growing small, dark and still as his pin-point awareness settled upon the small, almost imperceptible intake of breath that entered his brother's lungs.

One breath, two breaths were taken into Raphael's chest and Donatello nearly choked on the relief that flooded his heart at this small accomplishment.

Dashing away the damp wetness from his cheeks, Donatello began talking softly to his brother, insisting that Raphael not give up and that he was going to be fine and that everything was going to be fine. He told his brother that he was going to have to fight, to stay strong, and to keep breathing.

Another short, shakily breath was dragged into Raphael's lungs, his chest moving ever so slightly with the intake of air, before it exited in a sick rattling sound like old bones in the wind.

Donatello stared at his brother's chest, willing it with every single fibre of his being to move, but it didn't.

Shaking his head emphatically back and forth in denial, he shouted this into the night. The wind whipped up around him, biting cold stinging his flesh and entering into his very soul and he shook his brother's shoulders, as if this would somehow convince him to take in that much needed inhalation of oxygen.

Begging his brother to live, he sought out the pulse at his throat and waited, holding his breath.

Nothing.

There was no movement beneath Donatello's shaking fingers, but he refused to give up; refused to play this twisted game where one brother's life was sacrificed for the other.

Pumping his brother's chest over and over again, trying fervently to force his brother's heart to beat, he slipped into the madness that compels one to continue the same action over and over again, expecting a different result than the previous one.

It didn't matter that logically Donatello's mind whispered sorrowfully to him that Raphael's injuries were too grievous to have survived for long. Even if Donatello had managed to find Raphael sooner, there would have been nothing he could have done. Besides the broken bones, the charred flesh and the many lacerations and shrapnel that criss-crossed his brother's body, the brutal wound created by the broken wooden branch was a mortal one.

He knew that Raphael's lung had been punctured and that there was a strong possibility that Raphael's vena cava had been nicked, slowly filling his brother's chest cavity with blood and causing him bleed out and suffocate simultaneously

But even though Donatello knew all of this, he refused to accept both the diagnosis and his brother's death.

With futility born of grief, he continued to pump his brother's chest, checking his pulse one final time.

Greeted by nothing but unresponsive flesh, he let out a keening wail of grief and collapsed upon his brother's unmoving chest, sobbing into his brother's bloodied throat.

 ** _I pray the Lord my soul to take..._**

How long Donatello remained in this position he neither knew nor cared, but finally, he forced himself to pull away.

Sitting back upon his haunches he stared at his brother with grief-stricken, disbelieving eyes. A heaviness weighed down his heart, his breath constricted by the tightness that closed his throat and made breathing and swallowing near impossible.

Taking in a shaking breath, it took all of his willpower not to break down into an overwrought, mindless creature too consumed by grief to move.

Wiping away the cold tears that had run unchecked down his cheeks, he took one last, long look at his brother.

Bitter fury filled him as he took hold of the tacky surface of the rough wooden branch and yanked it from his brother's body, blaming the inanimate object for his brother's cruel and untimely death.

Quickly standing upon legs that shook perilously, he furiously threw the three foot spike deep into the forest, as if by removing the implement of his brother's death, his brother would somehow be free of the infliction enacted upon him.

But getting rid of the stake did nothing but reveal the gruesome, bloody, gaping hole in his brother's chest.

Choking back another sob as renewed grief sent wave after wave of agony and misery through him, he fell to his knees before his brother, whispering to him how sorry he was that he had failed him.

Raphael of course remained unmoved and unaffected by his words, for his brother was past thinking about, caring about, or even being able to hear about such things.

The words that spilled from Donatello's lips weren't meant to console anyone but himself.

Searching Raphael's face for any trace of lingering emotion, he acknowledged that his brother's visage was peaceful, and restive. If not for the stillness of his form and the mortal wound, Donatello could have been tricked into believing that his brother was only sleeping, and would, at any moment, open his eyes and give him a wry smile, sarcastic words falling easily from his lips while he let out a growl of irritation over Donatello's fussing.

The only comfort he could take was that for a tiny, sliver of a moment, Raphael had taken a breath, his heart had beat, and he hadn't died alone. He wasn't sure if Raphael had known Donatello was there or not, but he hoped that his brother had somehow sensed his presence and had maybe even hung on for those last few minutes as his way of saying goodbye.

It was most likely fanciful, desperate thinking upon Donatello's part, but this didn't lessen the need to grasp onto this faint, fragile idea and belief with every ounce of strength he had, because the alternative -Raphael dying in agony, afraid and alone in the dark- was a fate Donatello's heart and very soul could not bear.

Weary now that the heart pounding adrenalin was gone from his system, it was replaced by a slow, suffocating sorrow.

Leaning down, he gathered his brother's body close and whispered into his brother's ear, "Thank you."

It was said in gratitude for a multitude of things: for sacrificing himself to save Michelangelo, for always being there for their family and for being their brother.

"I love you, big brother," he whispered, the breeze that had felt so cutting and biting only minutes before seemingly softer somehow. Leaves shifted and rolled across the forest floor, caught by the whim of the gentle capricious wind, the twin tails of his mask drifted back and away from his shoulders.

Gently, Donatello lifted his brother's body from the cold, hard ground and pulled him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Slowly standing, he turned in the direction that they had parked their van and began walking.

He had no doubt that his brothers would be waiting with baited, terrified, yet hopeful breath that Donatello would bring Raphael back. And this was something Donatello could do. He was bringing their brother back, but not alive. He brought back with him the battered and broken body of their brave, reckless, hotheaded brother, nothing more.

He supposed that in time this thought would give him some small amount of comfort, at this moment, it gave him none.

The silence of the night pressed down upon him and he felt as if at times he should just stop, place Raphael back down upon the ground and curl up beside him, close his eyes and never wake up, because the crushing, agonizing misery that had torn his heart to shreds was too much to bear.

But even though this haunting siren song whispered and tempted him, he did not heed its call.

Grief felt like the death of one's very own heart and soul, but it was a demise that was not permanent. Life would never be the same again and that gaping hole that had been torn through the very essence of Donatello's being would not ever dissipate entirely, but the wound would eventually become less grievous over time.

And so Donatello resolutely placed one foot in front of the other until some small thing, a disturbance of some sort, was able to pierce through the shroud of his black misery and he found himself pausing in an attempt to identify what it was about the noise that had been able to gain his attention.

Crouching down and laying his brother's body reverently upon the ground, he stood and made his way cautiously towards the sound of a strained, voice and radio static.

Slipping through the trees, it felt as if the very woods themselves were easing his way and leading him towards something of interest.

Breaking through a clearing, Donatello stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze arrested by the sight that greeted him.

There, with his back leaning up against the rough bark of a great tree, sat Bishop.

Voice raised in trembling angry desperation, Bishop plaintively called for help, the broken radio in his hand no more aiding his plight than his voice.

Only, Donatello supposed, Bishop's voice had called him here to this very spot.

Bishop had not noticed him standing there, his body and form blending in with the shadows that hovered around the base of the trees, inviting him, holding him, secreting him there so that he could watch the architect of the horrors that had been perpetrated this night suffer.

Expert eyes assessed Bishops wounds, cuts, bruises, lacerations, and two broken legs.

One leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, while gleaming, shattered and bloody bone protruded from the other with a macabre juxtaposition of pierced flesh.

Even with his extensive injuries, if Bishop received medical help, he would survive.

A man who, if not exactly the epitome evil, was at least very close friends with it, would live to see another day. Bishop's lungs would fill with breath, where his brother's remained still and empty; Bishop's heart would continue to beat, while his brother's remained still, silent and cold.

Donatello hadn't even realized that he had moved until Bishop's voice alerted him to the fact that Bishop was gratefully acknowledging the fact that someone had responded to his calls and had found him.

Bishop's voice begged for mercy when he realized who stood before him. He made promises and even threats and all of these words slipped from between the bloodstained lips of the man responsible for injuring one brother and killing the other.

Though Donatello heard the words, knew that some part of his brain was still processing them and storing them away for later, he seemed unable to actually _understand_ them.

Fear slowly seeped in, replacing the pain and hope that writhed around in Bishops eyes as Donatello did nothing but stand there and stare at Bishop as if he were looking at some great piece of modern art that had been placed outdoors while inviting spectators to gaze upon it and ponder the meaning the artist was trying to inspire within the observer.

No words passed Donatello's lips as he slowly knelt down. Without thought, Donatello quickly pulled a deadly tanto from his belt and drove it through Bishop's chest. His movements had been so quick and so sure, that the man hadn't had time to even react before his lung had been punctured and his vena cava sliced just enough to ensure a slow death by either bleeding out, or drowning in his own blood, whichever came first.

He left the tanto in Bishop's chest to make sure that he experienced the agony that Raphael suffered up until he died.

Bishop's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for breath, his body becoming rigid with pain and fear.

Donatello stood and turned, not even looking back as he left Bishop to die alone in the woods, just a Raphael had. It was not a fitting end, but it was apropos none-the-less.

Ducking under heavy, leaf laden boughs, Donatello slipped back into the shadows of the night darkened forest as if he had never been in the clearing at all.

No smile tugged at his lips, for Donatello felt no satisfaction at his actions. He had not thirsted for revenge, he knew that this emotion would not fill the space that Raphael's death had left in his very heart and soul, but Donatello felt as if he had somehow restored some sort of balance to the world; tipping the scale of light again so it would not fall further into darkness.

Reaching his brother, he again placed Raphael upon his shoulders, his mind giving no more thought to Bishop's suffering than he would to the death of a bug.

Feet again finding their, weary, steady rhythm, he made his way to the van, where he would shatter his brothers' hearts and try to help them pick up the pieces, one sharp, fractured shard at a time.

 ** _Amen._**

The End

* * *

 **Kleenexes for anyone who needs it. *sniff***

 **Thank you all for reading and if the mood strikes you, feel free to write a review.**


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